


Barely There- Just a Feeling

by jimkirkk



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M, Violence, ghost dancer au, major character death (background), tycutio au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimkirkk/pseuds/jimkirkk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mercutio is dancer at Verona Dance Studio that has the legacy of an old legend following it. And as the legend goes, a poltergeist haunts the old upstairs auditorium. But is it really a poltergeist? Or is it just a not-so-happy ghost, trapped in between realms? </p>
<p>Mercutio never thought he'd know the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Observations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quwinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quwinto/gifts).



The first time Mercutio sees him, he has to blink and rub at his eyes to make sure he's not hallucinating. But he's still not sure, since he's dehydrated, it's 90º outside, and he's pretty sure he's been awake for three days.  


The second time, he can't decide if what he's seeing is actually there, or if it's a trick of the light. He doesn't know- maybe he doesn't want to believe.  


But the supernatural wasn't so uncommon, when you were looking for it.  


The third time Mercutio sees the man, the apparition, he's entranced by it's movements. It's steps across the floor- twirls and glides and anything in between- it's dance. And it's beautiful. This apparition, dancing alone on a worn wooden stage in a dark room, floor sanded down from the hundreds and thousands of feet that had touched it over the years. Whether it be plays, ballets, recitals, concerts, or this.  


Mercutio wasn't sure what he wanted to call it. The man, if it even was a man, was tall, muscular, and dressed like he was a late 1800s newspaper seller. His face was graced with a fair amount of dirt and a little blood, as were his clothes. Torn shirt, torn pants, everything about him looked rough. But he was something else. By God, was is. He was translucent- only half-there and not really there at all.  


He had a shadow, albeit a faint one. His footsteps, however, made no sound. No shoes scuffing on the floor, no toes cracking as they bent when he leapt into the air.  


Could he even call this apparition a he? He had been doing so, for quite some time since he'd first seen it. But until he knew- until he figured out just what this apparition was, there was no way he'd know.  


He was afraid he'd never know. Know about this apparition, know about its past, its dance, its anything. Mercutio wanted to know this apparition. It was beautiful.


	2. How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Mercutio was under the spell of this apparition's movements, being drawn closer and closer without even realizing. He didn't want to get closer. He knew he was moving, he wanted to watch from afar. But his legs were not under his control, or so it seemed.  


He reached the stage and joined in the dance, not really touching the apparition, but dancing with it nonetheless. It was fascinating, how this apparition had just gripped his attention with iron fists and refused to let go. Was this all it had come to? The weeks of waiting to see if it was there again, the weeks of wondering if too much time spent buried in mythology and fantasy books and dance rehearsals was making him lose his mind.  


As he danced with the apparition, it certainly seemed to be real.  


They spun and stepped and lunged across the floor in a silent waltz. The apparition didn't speak, for how could it? It was insubstantial.  


As the apparition spun again, Mercutio saw the bloodstain across the side of the white shirt it wore. It had been hidden by the apparition's arm.  


"What are you?" Mercutio asked the awful being.  


It tapped its lips and shook its head.  


"You can't talk?"  


It nodded.  


For a minute, Mercutio studied it. It's face was angry, perpetually mad at something. Probably whoever had caused it to bleed. Whoever had killed it. The apparition was scowling, the expression written across its dark skin, somehow not marring the face. It wasn't a bad look. It was kind of adorable. Even so, Mercutio wished the expression gone.  


The apparition was just a little smaller and a little darker than he himself was. His skin was a more golden tone, in the middle and more tanned from the sun than genetics. This apparition, despite the pallor of death, seemed to be a sun-warmed tan. With the pallor and translucency, it was hard to tell.  


Mercutio tilted his head at it, "Do you have a gender?" He didn't think he should keep calling the apparition an it.  


Again, it nodded. It spelled out a word in the air, near-shimmering fingers dragging through it like it was water. _B O Y._  


"What about a name? Surely you must have a name."  


With another nod, more letters were drawn through the air. _T Y B A L T._  


"Tybalt," Mercutio breathed, reverently, hand coming up to mirror the apparition's- Tybalt's. It fit. It fit with the curly mop of hair and the brown pants and dirt and bloodstained face. It fit with the beauty, the utter  


_Y O U?_  


"Mercutio."  


_W H Y/ D I D/ Y O U/ D A N C E/ W I T H/ M E?_  


The apparition had an angry curiosity about him. Mercutio didn't have a good answer to his question, "I don't know. I felt drawn to you, I guess."  


Tybalt grinned, _Y O U/ D A N C E/ W E L L/_  


"Thank you," Mercutio smiled, "You do as well."  


_I' V E/ S E E N/ Y O U/ B E F O R E/_  


"You have?"  


_Y O U/ S T O O D/ I N/ T H E/ D O O R W A Y_  


"Yeah," Mercutio's smile grew wider, "I guess I did. Didn't think you'd caught me. Must be a prince of cats, to have caught me padding around here, though."  


_I / A M / N O / P R I N C E/ O F / C A T S_  


"Okay. Then you're just Tybalt. But that doesn't answer my first question. What are you?"  


_A/ G H O S T/_  


Mercutio deflated. He'd known- he'd thought- he'd wished it was not something so permanent as death that held the being there, "How did you die?"  


The apparition's face was stony. Eyes a steely silver, it spelled out, _A/ M O N T A G U E_  


Well fuck, "I should have guessed."  


_T H E Y/ A R E/ D I S G R A C E D/_  


Mercutio nodded, "Probably." He couldn't say more. He was a Montague. He was the disgraced. And this Tybalt, this ghost, whatever he felt for this apparition, it could never be acted upon. Tybalt was dead. He was a slightly gaseous thing hovering above the stage. And he was livid.


	3. Stuck

The room was dark and moonlight filtered through the windows and Mercutio’s only thoughts were of the apparition in front of him. The ghost. This ghost dancer, this Tybalt. Every time Mercutio had watched him, the dance had been beautiful. Practiced steps that made no sound, jumps that made him seem like he’d done it professionally.  


But Mercutio didn’t think Tybalt’s thoughts were of him. They couldn’t be. Not when Tybalt was so furious at the world, the world he’d left for whatever realm he was stuck in now.  


_A R E/ T H E Y/ S T I L L/ H E R E?_ Tybalt drew in the air.  


Mercutio sighed, long and sad, "Yeah, they are.  


_Y O U/ A R E/ O N E/ O F/ T H E M?_  


He had to admit, this ghost caught on fast, "I am."  


_T H E N/ I / H A V E/ D I S G R A C E D/ M Y S E L F_  


"No," Mercutio's face softened, "No you haven't. You couldn't. I'm at fault, if anyone."  


_W H Y/ M U S T/ Y O U/ T A K E/ T H E/ B L A M E?_  


"Because you can't. Tybalt, you are a Capulet, and a dead one at that. A Montague killed you, the Montagues are disgraced."  


_H O W/ C A N/ Y O U/ S A Y/ T H A T/ O F/ Y O U R/ O W N?_  


Mercutio shook his head, turning away. He felt feather-light touches on his shoulder and had to remind himself to move slowly.  


_H O W?_  


"I like you. That's it, plain and simple. I like you, so I'm taking the blame, I'm at fault, I'm disgraced, not you."  


_W H Y/ N O T/ M E?_  


Mercutio reached out, hand stopping less than a centimeter away from Tybalt's cheek, as if he were caressing it, "Nothing so beautiful as you could never be disgraced."  


Tybalt was confused. There was a furrow between his brows and his hand was moving, but not forming letters or words of any kind.  


_I / A M/ N O T/ B E A U T I F U L_  


"You are. And I have to go."  


_Y O U/ W I L L/ R E T U R N?_  


"You want me to?"  


There was a sickening moment of stillness in which Mercutio thought he would say yes.  


_N O._  


Well, then. It made sense, honestly. Tybalt wouldn't want someone around who was only seen as a disgrace. He wouldn't want his presence tarnished by a Montague. His image. He was already dead because of the Montagues. He wouldn't want to hang around one. Hell, he probably already had. Probably what got him killed.  


Mercutio stalked out, more of a storming, really. He wanted to be around Tybalt. This fucking apparition had taken over his mind and Tybalt's presence in that room, on that stage in the dark of the night, only the light from the halls and streetlamps filtering in. It was like a fucking addiction, his need to see, to watch, to be with this man- this ghost. He'd leave. Detox just to retox. That's all that'd happen. He'd keep coming back. He'd leave, he'd try and stay away, and he'd come right back.  


He didn't want this.  


Fuck, he didn't even know what he wanted. Something. With Tybalt? For Tybalt? It seemed all his thoughts revolved around Tybalt.  


It'd be a long road.  


He didn’t think he ever get a chance to be with Tybalt. And if he did, it'd be a long time coming. He wished he could just go back in and punch Tybalt right in his stupid fucking face. Wished Tybalt was able to fight with fists instead of words.  


Words were his thing. Capulets were supposed to fight with their fists. They had brass knuckles and the Montagues had silver-tipped tongues.  


But Mercutio was neither. He was a cousin of the Prince. He was a neutral party in the feud, but more affiliated with the Montagues. The Capulets were too violent for his nature.  


Or maybe not violent enough. Just too loud, too rowdy to be around all the time. Tybalt seemed much more mild-mannered, as a ghost, by comparison. Which Mercutio seriously doubted. If Tybalt were able to make use of his fists, he'd never stop. He'd brawl. He was born and raised a street rat. He'd fight.  


Tybalt, Prince of Cats, Brawler, Ghost. Mercutio would have to ask his brother about the murder. Of course, it’d be in the books. Deaths due to the feud.  


It was sad, that they needed a book for that. And it went back centuries. Back to a Mercutio and Tybalt who were born in the 1600s, when the feud was at its worst and coming to an end.  


But the feud was starting up again and it’d destroy them all if they weren’t careful. It had been brewing in small attacks ever since its supposed end. Men losing their minds and attacking a Montague, Montagues provoking attacks, Capulets starting them. It would continue. It would not end.  


And Tybalt. Tybalt, who was stuck in some realm that was not theirs, he would suffer. There would be more like him. Others would find out about him. Who knew what they’d try and do, once he was found.  


Mercutio still wondered just why Tybalt was trapped in that room. Was he really trapped? Or could he leave? Did he leave? He knew time had passed but like hell if that meant anything. If Tybalt were able to leave… Mercutio didn’t want to think about it. There was no use getting all opportunistic about something that’d never happen. No false hopes, no optimism. Only the fact that Tybalt was a ghost, and Mercutio was human, and nothing would ever happen, because even by some odd chance they managed to get Tybalt back alive, there was no way Tybalt would be even slightly homoflexible. He had grown up in a time and place that didn’t accept that kind of thing. It was barely even accepted now. And Mercutio, who wasn’t out to anyone but himself, was stuck.  


Stuck in a realm away from Tybalt, stuck in a world where ghosts existed but ways to bring them back didn’t. He was so utterly stuck with this ghost. Tybalt had attracted him like superglue. And he wasn’t sure if it was good thing he was stuck in love.


	4. There's Something Dancing Here in the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title's from The Haunting by Anberlin btw

It was right around the end of the first month of knowing Tybalt that Mercutio remembered the legend.  


It had been told to him when he was little, maybe three or four years old, and just starting dance classes. He’d wanted to do everything. Ballet, Jazz, Tap, Hip-Hop, Ballroom. And he, along with the rest of his class, on opening night of their first recital, had been told the legend of the Capulet’s revenge.  


An angry poltergeist haunted the upstairs auditorium. If you were to say his name out loud before the recital, sometime soon after, you’d all die. You’d be hunted and killed by this poltergeist, this Tybalt, apparently.  


It started with a foolish seven year old, who’d thought the poltergeist wasn’t real. She’d said his name aloud on opening night, right before they went on stage. And about midway through, things began to fly around the auditorium. The house lights all broke with loud popping noises, windows opened and shut. The emergency lights flickered and changed color. Speakers and musical instruments flew throughout the room. Chairs lifted up, either toppling the people in them, or taking them with them. Loose floorboards ripped up. Pieces of plaster began to fall from the ceiling.  


By the end, every single dancer was dead, and a shimmering, barely-there figure hovered above the stage, laughing and spinning in pirouettes amidst the destruction.  


If you were a Montague or a Capulet, however, you would have the worst fate of all. You’d be trapped there with the poltergeist. You’d be shoved into that other realm for him to torment you for eternity.  


If that was Tybalt, maybe saying not to return was a protective gesture. Maybe it was to keep Mercutio safe because someone soon would say his name and it’d end badly.  


God, did Mercutio want to hope that’s all it was.  


He knew it wasn’t. 

ø

It was two weeks before Mercutio saw him again. Two weeks of talking to his brother, Valentine, about the old stage and the ghost that apparently inhabited it. Two weeks of… pining? wishing? hoping? Two weeks of whatever the fuck had been happening in his head after he’d danced with Tybalt.  


The feel of Tybalt’s hand on his shoulder. The feel of Tybalt’s hand on his waist as they’d waltzed. The memory of Tybalt’s face once Mercutio had finally gotten the courage to look at him.  


Mercutio was so terrified of what would happen, but like hell if he’d admit that. He’d fight tooth and claw with Tybalt as much as he needed to. Their words would become knuckles in the jaw and feet in the groin. Because Mercutio was going back.  


He had to go back.  


He was standing at the door when he heard an odd yelling and turned. It turned out to just be his brother, yelling at one of the dancers about their technique. Typical Valentine.  


He shifted, pivoting to look at Tybalt again.  


Tybalt was sitting in the spotlight, hands in fists and leaning over the floor, probably scowling at the ground.  


What Mercutio would give to know what he was thinking.  


He stepped in, walking silently to the stage. Still, Tybalt saw him.  


Tybalt didn’t say anything, just turned and ran. He was halfway off the stage when Mercutio caught up to him, reaching out to take hold of Tybalt’s shirt. He’d forgotten that wasn’t possible.  


“Tybalt!”  


Tybalt spun around, face stormy. _G O/ A W A Y_  


“Why must you be so brash?”  


_Y O U/ A R E/ A/ M O N T A G U E/_  


“I’m a relative of the prince. I hang around both houses.”  


_M O N T A G U E/ S Y M P A T H I Z E R/_  


“Maybe so. But I am a friend of the Capulet’s.”  


_E V E N/ S O_  


Mercutio sighed, looking down at his feet and feeling like a dumb teenager, “Please.”  


_L E A V E._  


“Must I?”  


_I / A M/ D I S G R A C E D/ B Y/ Y O U R/ P R E S E N C E_  


He nodded, wishing Tybalt’s mind weren’t hardwired with hate. Cause he was just as stubborn, and since pleading had gotten him nowhere, “I’m not leaving, then. You should be disgraced.”  


_W H Y?_  


“The feud is not as it used to be.”  


Tybalt looked confused and a furrow appeared between his brows, _E X P L A I N._  


“It stopped. Two teenagers died as a result of it and it ended. Centuries ago.”  


_C E N T U R I E S?_  


“It’s died down. Capulets and Montagues could get married now, if they chose to.”  


_I S/ T H I S/ T R U E?_  


It wasn’t, but it was damn well close enough. A few pairs had eloped over the years, will little negative effect, “Yes.”  


Tybalt was still scowling. He didn’t want to give up that easily.  


Mercutio was a few more angry facial expressions away from pouting. He’d bring out the anime eyes if he had to.  


He hoped what he had in mind would work, cause he wasn’t pouting. Descendants of the prince did not pout.  


He held out a hand, eyes trained pointedly away from Tybalt.  


The brush of air he felt across his fingertips was a fucking godsend. He grinned, looking up. He wasn’t sure why he was so smitten with this ghost, after just one conversation- could it even be called that? Whatever. One dance and one pseudo-conversation and he was pining. Like a fucking horny teenager. Even worse, it was over a ghost.  


Mercutio shook his head at himself and walked back to the middle of the stage, knowing Tybalt was following.  


As they assumed their positions for the dance, Mercutio again wished he could know what Tybalt was thinking. Those stormy, steely eyes conveyed nothing other than anger. And Mercutio time and time again would wish that wasn’t so.  


Who had so hurt this man, shaped this man so nothing but anger and hatred filtered through?


	5. Revelations

Two more weeks, and Mercutio had been seeing Tybalt every few days. And he wasn’t sure their relationship had gotten anywhere. Tybalt routinely kicked him out, fear in his normally angry eyes.  


He’d left each time, not understanding why he had to, but knowing that if Tybalt had had a solid form, he’d be running.  


It was so damn difficult to read Tybalt sometimes, and to know how he was feeling. He would fade in and out of existence, if he exerted too much energy, he’d fall right through the floor and into some other realm. One that Mercutio knew he’d never be able to enter.  


At what cost was Tybalt staying here? At what cost would he be able to leave?  


Mercutio wasn’t sure he wanted Tybalt to leave.  


Which led him to the old auditorium, with the old worn stage and splintering steps, and the single intact spotlight.  


He sat in the middle of the stage, head down and eyes trained on the spot Tybalt had been in just a few nights before.  


What had so enticed him about this man- this ghost- that he was so fixated on the idea of relationship? On the idea that maybe, just maybe, Tybalt could be alive again? Or solid in some way that they would be able to touch- to kiss- to even just dance and feel each other’s hands on one another.  


Was it possible?  


He didn’t know when Tybalt would return. He wished it to be soon, yet he had the sinking feeling that it would take much longer than the two nights it had been thus far.  


The thought that Tybalt could one day disappear and be gone from Mercutio for good sickened him. It made him nauseous and gave him the bad kind of butterflies. It made him so terrified that he had to sit and stare at the floor, had to force himself to remember the wispy feeling of Tybalt’s fingers in his.  


He was so scared.  


Scared enough for his hands to shake and his pulse to thunder in his ears. He’d formed this attachment to a ghost and it was probably the worst thing he’d ever done to himself. But also the best.  


God, he fucking hated Tybalt. Hated his stupid dirty face and full lips and dark, curly hair. He wanted to push Tybalt up against a wall and kiss his stupid full lips until neither of knew whose air they were breathing.  


Tybalt had been withdrawn and not very amiable at all. He’d be furious and refused to calm down. His eyes had gone from steely to fiery at the mention of Romeo and Juliet. And then Mercutio had confirmed that in this day and age, Juliet Capulet and Romeo Montague were very much alive. They weren’t the same as the ones from Tybalt’s time, but they were alive.  


Tybalt was still antagonistic. He refused to see certain things. It appeared he was built upon hatred.  


Mercutio startled at the feeling of breath ghosting across the back of his neck. He flinched again at the feeling of it on his face. He looked up and saw torn brown pants.  


“Tybalt.”  


_Y O U/ A R E/ W O R R I E D_   


“Yeah, that’s true,” Mercutio nodded, not meeting Tybalt’s eyes.  


_A B O U T/ M E?_   


Mercutio nodded again. He wouldn’t look past Tybalt’s knees. Then he’d have to confront what he’d been avoiding.  


_T H A T ‘ S/ S T U P I D._   


Mercutio huffed a laugh, “I don’t think so.”  


_W H Y?_   


“Why am I worried about you?” He looked up. He knew Tybalt was gonna nod to that, not spell anything out.  


He thought about that. Why was he worried? “You disappear. You just fall through the floor and I don’t know where you go. But I know you’re scared to go back.”  


_I / C A N ‘ T/ T A L K/ A B O U T/ I T_   


“Is there a way to prevent you from going back?”  


_I / D O N ‘ T/ K N O W_   


“Okay,” Mercutio sighed, looking down at his still shaking hands. The only way to figure it out was to send Tybalt back. At least, it was the only way he could think of.  


He didn’t want Tybalt going back. No matter where it was, or who was there, he didn’t want Tybalt going back.  


When he looked up again, Tybalt was gone, leaving him sitting in the dark room on the old stage, single spotlight casting a halo around his body. 

ø

Tybalt punched the wall. He couldn’t keep going on like this. Two months. Two months had passed since Mercutio had first danced with him. And now he was afraid for his sanity.  


He’d never been happy as a ghost. He hadn’t wanted to be trapped in a world as thoroughly disgusting as the one in which he’d lived. He hadn’t wanted to stuck in a world where his father was able to terrorize anyone he pleased, free from punishment. How his father had treated his mother. How his father had- no. He couldn’t think about that.  


He punched the wall again, remembering how his father’s hands had looked so large wrapped around his mother’s wrists. How the bruises had looked too light for her dark skin.  


He kicked the shelf to his left as he continued in his path.  


He wanted to destroy everything. Set fire to it all and laugh as it burned.  


For so long he had wanted to escape to the oblivion others tended to call heaven. He had wished for hell, if that would be further away from his father than this sorry world.  


Now he was looking for a way out of this realm and into Mercutio’s. For what reason, he wasn’t sure.  


Maybe it was the way Mercutio’s hands felt on his shoulders, or his waist, or his face. The way Mercutio’s fingers felt as they dragged through his hair and how Mercutio’s body felt pressed against Tybalt’s. Of course, Tybalt couldn’t feel those things. He couldn’t feel brushes of air any more than he could feel his feet on the floor.  


Or maybe it was because the feud was done. The feud was done and his father was long gone, stuck in a realm separate from even Tybalt’s. And so maybe returning to the world in which he once lived, the world in which he had so many times taken beatings from a man he hated and hated him even more, the world in which a man named Mercutio had once tried to court him.  


This was a different Mercutio- he felt all too familiar. The warm, jesting spirit, the loose movements, the smile. Even the hair and the skin were similar. More freckles, a little darker, but still similar. And Tybalt remembered the feel of his Mercutio’s hands. The brushes of fingertips across bare skin, firm grips on arms, necks, hips, thighs. Heated breath against skin and sweaty bodies moving against each other in the dark. Soft lips and the graze of teeth over muscle. He wanted that again. And he was falling for this Mercutio. This brash and bold and energetic and infuriating Mercutio. This Mercutio, who could keep up in dance and was light on his feet, never making a sound unless he meant to. This Mercutio, who was slightly taller and leaner than the past Mercutio. This Mercutio, whose spirit shone in his eyes and whose smile was intoxicating.  


Tybalt was falling for this Mercutio. And it made him angry at his world- angry at the man who tormented him in this realm, this terrifying realm. Angry at his state of being and at the hopelessness of his situation. He wished for Mercutio in a way he had never wished for anyone. And God, the way his bones would ache if he still had them.  


Somewhere- six feet under an old checkered floor, his bones laid, decaying a little more with every second.  


He threw a bottle of whiskey against the far wall and sank down to the ground, head in his hands as it shattered. If a ghost could cry, it was likely that was what he’d be doing.  


This Mercutio created an ache in his heart so deep he felt it in those bones under that old checkered floor. And he was breaking, somehow, the ache intensifying with each breath. If he didn’t return this time, he might die. A second time.


	6. Recalled to Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo it's finally being updated! it took a while to finish this and i'm expecting only like... maybe 2 more chapters out of this? hope you like it!

It was nearly a month before Mercutio saw Tybalt again. It was a lonely half month, full of aching hearts and tear-wet cheeks. Mercutio wasn’t necessarily crying over Tybalt, more the ache in his chest the never truly seemed to go away when Tybalt was gone. It was a hollow ache. He was missing a piece of himself and that piece was Tybalt. It was clear to him now that the short months he’d had so far had seemed longer than the rest. How they’d dragged on but sped by so fast in the weeks Tybalt was there. No amount of wit or humor could make this loneliness abate.  


Tybalt took center stage in Mercutio’s life and danced around his heart like it was his to play with. And if Mercutio was being honest, it was. His heart was Tybalt’s and he was gone, forever belonging to a ghost. The only problem was, ghosts were so long forgotten that it was rare a soul would ever know one. And now that the only ghost Mercutio had ever had the chance of meeting was gone, Mercutio’s soul was aching for him.  


He honestly hadn’t expected Tybalt to come back.  


He’d expected to be alone and spiral down this rabbit hole of ridiculous depression and loneliness at Tybalt’s absence. He’d expected to be a tortured soul who died young due to a lover lost. But Tybalt wasn’t a lover. They’d never kissed, they’d never so much as touched.  


Oh, what Mercutio would give to touch Tybalt. To feel his skin, to know how Tybalt’s lips felt on his. To know Tybalt completely, that would be Mercutio’s one and only wish. He’d give his life for that chance.  


Undoubtedly, unconditionally, he was Tybalt’s. 

\----

It was a cold January morning when Mercutio felt a ghost of something across the back of his neck. He turned, finding nothing. It had probably been the wind. He kept walking, hands by his sides. They were kind of numb from the cold but he was okay with it.  


He slowed just slightly, not really thinking about it. Another brush of something across his fingers and he looked to his side.  


Again, nothing.  


He felt something odd around his shoulders and had to wonder what the hell it was. He didn’t look behind him. He had a feeling there’d be nothing there.  


A few minutes later there was pressure on his left hand again. And he was afraid to look. If there was nothing there, if truly, there was nothing, and what he was feeling wasn’t real, he’d break. Doing that in Central Park was not a good idea.  


He closed his eyes tightly and swallowed as tears threatened. That wouldn’t be the first time he’d cried in public since Tybalt disappeared.  


The pressure on his hand increased and then faded and he decided to look.  


The face staring back at him was all too familiar and almost a godsend at this point.  


“How?” Mercutio asked, voice cracking on the one syllable.  


Tybalt signed, _I M/ N O T/ G O I N G/ B A C K._  


Mercutio wondered for maybe the first time in Tybalt knew sign language. He’d been around for centuries, it was likely he could’ve picked it up.  


“You’re never leaving?”  


_N O T/ I F/ I / C A N/ H E L P/ I T._  


Mercutio laughed. He laughed. For the first time in a month he laughed, and it was a true laugh. It wasn’t the fake shit he pulled out of his ass every time someone made a joke and it didn’t come with that heavy feeling in his chest that he loathed so much. It was relieved, breathy, loud sound. It caused others to look at him, to wonder just who he was talking to and why he was laughing.  


He didn’t care. Tybalt was back and Tybalt was here, walking with him. _Holding his hand._  


“You’re holding my hand.”  


_A N D?_  


“Why were you gone for so long?”  


Tybalt shook his head. _I / C A N T/ T A L K/ A B O U T/ I T_  


“Yeah, you’ve said that before. It’s been all too lonely without you.”  


_R E A L L Y?_  


“I missed our dances. And you, skulking around like a cat.”  


_I / D O N T/ S K U L K_  


“You skulk so much you could be the price of cats.”  


Tybalt scoffed but it was just a wisp of air.  


“Can you talk? Is that possible?” Mercutio asked, grin never fading but with a still curious look on his face.  


Tybalt shook his head.  


“Completely sure?”  


_Y E S._  


Mercutio wasn’t sure Tybalt was telling the truth. Tybalt was never one for one word answers. He enjoyed elaborating when given the chance and while he could certainly be quiet, he said a lot. He and Mercutio had easy conversation, there was no shortage of things to tell one another or to joke about with one another. Mercutio had researched it. He knew there had been a Mercutio in that time. And that this Tybalt had accidentally killed him.  


Mercutio still wondered if he was a replacement.  


Maybe now was the time to ask.  


“Am I just a reminder to you?”  


_W H A T?_  


“Your Mercutio. You killed him. Am I just a replacement?”  


Tybalt shook his head, a scornful look crossing his face, _N O._  


“No?”  


_N O T/ A T/ A L L._  


Tybalt gestured to the phone in Mercutio’s pocket and exerted energy to solidify his hands. Mercutio had long since moved behind a line of trees so no one would think anything of it.  


Mercutio took it out and Tybalt typed.  


_You’re not a replacement. Maybe in the beginning I thought of you that way. My Mercutio was different. He was less fiery than you. He had the same wit, but he was slower to act upon his thoughts. He didn’t enjoy the dance as much as you do. He was not as brash, nor as bold. He didn’t blush as often. My Mercutio was a comfort. You’re something new and something different, you’re fire and whipping wind. You anger me much more than he did. I was in love with him and I killed him. It looks like I was murdered. Let me just tell you I wasn’t. And there’s no replacement for my Mercutio. There could never be. But you… I fell for you._  


Mercutio thought back to the day he’d asked Tybalt about his death. He’d closed up and retreated into his mind as much as possible for a ghost. When Mercutio had assumed, Tybalt had neither confirmed it or denied it.  


 _H O W/ C A N/ Y O U/ S A Y/ T H A T/ O F/ Y O U R/ O W N?_ he’d asked.  


Mercutio stared at Tybalt, at the ghost. Tybalt was all dark skin and rough hands and curly hair, cut short to fit under his cap. But Tybalt was more than that. He was bloodstained smiles and water crashing down over houses. He was anger and destruction, but he was also fear. Fear was what had shaped this man in such a way that he was built upon hatred. And Mercutio would never forgive the man who had done that.  


Mercutio looked back down to the words in the box on his phone screen. _I fell for you._ He couldn’t help but let the grin return to his face.  


He laughed again, happy and contented with the news that his affections were returned.  


As he looked back up, he didn’t register that Tybalt was moving.  


The first brush of Tybalt’s lips across his was such an odd feeling. Tybalt solidified from his lips outward, whole body coming into view as he wrapped himself around Mercutio, hands going under clothing to find the warm skin underneath.  


Tybalt’s hands were cold.  


Tybalt’s _hands._ Mercutio could feel Tybalt’s hands.  


Tybalt’s lips were warm and slightly chapped, but still soft. He pressed his body against Mercutio’s and Mercutio heard Tybalt’s feet hit the ground.  


As they kissed, Mercutio expected him to fall through the ground into the realm he’d disappeared into for so long.  


But when they parted, Tybalt was breathing. Mercutio hugged him, ducking so he could press his ear to Tybalt’s neck and hear his pulse. Thump. Thump. His heart was a steady drum against his skin.  


When he stepped away, there was a man standing in front of them. He had a dark suit and pale skin and almost fully white eyes. He was a tall, imposing figure. His shadow seemed about a mile wide and a mile high.  


“Tybalt. I gave you back your life. Give what you promised.”  


“I didn’t promise you anything,” Tybalt said, voice hoarse but not cracking. It was full of fear. What about this man was so scary that even Tybalt was afraid?  


“A life for a life.”  


“That wasn’t the deal.”  


“Oh, but it was,” the man smirked.  


“If it’s my life, I’m gonna have to say no,” Mercutio told the man, eyebrow raised.  


The man turned to him, “Whose do you suggest, then, if not yours?”  


“No ones. No one needs to die for us to be together.”  


“A life for a life. That’s how the legend goes.”  


“No. No it’s not," Mercutio said, "The legend is that a poltergeist kills everyone in the dance hall and Montagues and Capulets are stuck with it. That’s you.”  


“I see I have a reputation,” the man smirked.  


“You’re the feud, aren’t you?” Mercutio asked.  


The man nodded, smile outright sardonic.  


“Then we can make a different deal. The feud ends. We all get peace. And we all keep our lives.”  


“And tell me, boy. How would you manage that?”  


“I have a plan. But you'll do everything you can to prevent it if I tell you.”  


Tybalt looked to him, confused, and Mercutio shook his head, “Give us five days. Five days is all we need to end it.”  


“And what do I get, if you fail?”  


Mercutio was sure this would work. It had to. The feud had been coming to a close, anyhow. It was time for it to end completely, “Our lives. You can take our lives. Our souls.”  


Tybalt looked terrified and Mercutio mentally apologized for doing that. He couldn’t help it, though. Because that’s all the poltergeist would agree to. And all three of them knew that.  


“Deal. But only cause you’re pretty. It’ll be sad to see you go, no doubt.”  


Mercutio gave it a disgusted look as it faded out of existence.  


As soon as it was gone, Tybalt shoved Mercutio against the closest tree.  


“Why the hell did you do that?”  


“Because I have a plan.”  


“What kind of plan would work in five days?”  


“One that works in three days?” Mercutio gave a slightly sheepish grin.  


Tybalt shook his head and pressed his forehead against Mercutio’s, “Please, just explain to me how this will work. I cannot go back there.”  


“Romeo and Juliet.”  


“Huh?”  


“Romeo and Juliet. Their wedding. It’s in three days, on Saturday. And that’s the merger deal.”  


“Huh?”  


Mercutio rolled his eyes, despite knowing Tybalt didn't know, “There was a deal between the head of the Capulet house and the head of the Montague house. Merge the two families and end it. The death toll has been enormous. It’s finally coming to a close.”  


“But?”  


“But the Capulet company and Montague company have to merge as well and there are a lot of people who think it’s a bad idea.”  


“That’s a wonderful idea. Bigger dance company, more dancers, more experienced dancers and many more styles.”  


“Exactly. Not everyone wants more.”  


“We’ll show them how it’s beneficial, then. If there are any deaths due to this wedding, or even injuries, the feud will not be over. And we will be taken.”  


Mercutio nodded, the fear of his death panging through his body. When he’d promised, he hadn’t thought about the poltergeist’s definition of over.  


He was afraid, he’d admit that. But with him and Tybalt front and center, they’d surely beat this. They had to.  


It was a cold January morning when Tybalt was returned to his body. And it’d be a cold January morning still, on the day that would decide whether or not they’d lose each other.


	7. A Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i'm sorry this is short but i think it's leading up to a bigger chapter so??? stay tuned for that also sorry for the long wait, school + family life is stressful af

Three days later.

In the soft lights of dawn Tybalt awoke, Mercutio’s room a sight for sore eyes, “You’re a dick, you know that?” Tybalt asked, curling around Mercutio.  


  
Mercutio turned his head and grinned, eyelids heavy with sleep, “I suppose that’s it. A dick and a warm bed.”

Tybalt snorted, “You, are absolutely infuriating.”

“You should be nice,” Mercutio told him, “Today could be our dying day.”

“Like I haven’t died once already.”

“While that is true, I have not,” Mercutio spoke quietly, eyes on the ceiling, “This plan of ours, it must work. We made a deal with the devil and if not, we won’t get our souls back.”

“Wasn’t it you who got us into this?”

“And for that, I will take the blame, if we do indeed fail. However, Romeo and Juliet are in love, and should they be unsuccessful in their efforts, I have a plan.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow and asked, “And what plan would that be?”

Mercutio rolled over to face Tybalt and kissed him hard on the lips, pressing against him, “Marry me?”

Tybalt blinked, head tilted to the side, “What?”

“I’m considered a Montague by your house, yes?” Mercutio asked, words rushed and eyes hopeful.

“Yes?”

“Then our marriage would unite the houses.”

“This is your back up plan?”

“Well it’ll work, won’t it?”

Tybalt rolled his eyes and kissed Mercutio sweetly, hands tangling in his hair, “Of course it will.”  


ø 

The next few hours they were frantic lovers, touching any skin available and whispering praises into one another’s ears. The cross around Tybalt’s neck burned in the heat between their bodies and Tybalt laughed through another broken moan.  
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned, words for tragic lovers, ripped from one another too soon. Words whispered in the dark as he’d knelt in the chambers of another. Now, they were a prayer, save my soul from the devil, dear God, save me. Save him.  
Another loud moan and Tybalt had his hands pressed to Mercutio’s chest, knees pressed into the bed and hips circling, head thrown back and mouth wide open. He looked completely wrecked. 

ø 

Two hours later, they were dressed in suits and awaiting the union of the houses.  


An hour before that, Mercutio had slipped a silver band on Tybalt’s ring finger and kissed him chastely before leading him to the dance hall where they’d met.  


Now, they were both tense, nervous energy coiled in the muscles and anxiety roiling in their guts. Their matching rings were both turning circles around their fingers, bated breath the only thing heard above the music.  


  
“This will work, right?” Mercutio asked.

“Not sure,” Tybalt told him.

“The marriage, or the whole getting killed by the feud thing?”

“Our marriage will most certainly work. But we have yet to discuss this as an alternate course of action if Romeo and Juliet are taken out.”

“Juliet’s father is outside," Mercutio said, "And so is the head of the Capulet house.”

“Let’s go.”  


They left, the thought of dying laying heavy in their hearts, and the music played on.


End file.
